


Portmanteau

by anonymousgratification



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Batman and Robin (Comics), DCU (Comics)
Genre: Character Study, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Insecurity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-22
Updated: 2019-05-22
Packaged: 2020-03-09 11:00:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18915607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anonymousgratification/pseuds/anonymousgratification
Summary: Damian gets hurt and learns a bit about affection.





	Portmanteau

**Author's Note:**

> Set during when Dick was Batman. I wanted to write something where Dick and Damian are beginning to understanding each other, tied in with some personal perceptions I've made from Damian's character, and some of Dick's struggles taking on the responsibility that comes with being Batman. Really, Dick & Damian's relationship is the only good thing DC has given me in recents years.  
> Thanks for reading.

There’s a subtle smell of disinfectant in the bunker. The lights aren’t lambent, but blinding. Damian squints. He glimpses transiently at Alfred, standing ahead of him, higher than Damian, seated upon the medical table. 

The only sound in the room is of Alfred’s hands, shifting as he fixes his wounds. 

During patrol, he sustained two injuries. Both on his leg. A gash on his thigh. Seven stitches. His ankle is likely broken. 

It prickles. The lesion. The bruises. A common, discarnate one; the dread of dissatisfaction, and the restlessness that comes with. 

His eyes wander around the room. Grayson’s turned from him. Damian can’t diagnose his reaction. He mastered deciphering body language at a young age; how to interpret each shift of body, each word, each tiny tremble of fingers, and how to react.

But, Grayson isn’t like anyone he’s ever met before. He oscillates between taciturn and loquacious. His words don’t always correspond. His smiles don’t always meet his eyes. His voice doesn’t sound as certain as Damian’s sure it should, and sometimes, there’s an undertone of resentment behind the words he utters with strict reverence and honor. 

Grayson chose him. Made him Robin when his father wouldn’t, and his father didn’t, as his father vanished, before Damian could memorize his face. Before he established an impression of him without the cowl. 

Grayson’s not the Batman he expected, nor the person he imagined when his mother sent him to Gotham, with an epithet and a legacy. He’s not entirely deserving of contempt, and he’s proven himself, both as a person, and a partner.

Sometimes, Damian can’t decide, what exactly is looming beneath the surface. How Grayson feels behind the words, and the smiles, and the duty. What is there under Batman, and his obligation to him, and his father, and the city he grew up in. 

Damian didn’t grow up here. He didn’t grow up anywhere particularly, changing locations and bases; spending his years training, and on missions, and perfecting his fighting strategies, and his cerebral ones. Some of the customs in Gotham, and the city, and the state, and the country, he finds… anomalous. The people here refer to each other differently. With a casual manner, and a passiveness Damian isn’t yet accustomed to. He’s adapting. He has. He will. 

He wishes Grayson would give him any indication. Anything for him to work with, for him to study and dissect. Instead, his mind is reeling with impending punishment. Impending penalties. Impending disappointment.

Damian should have seen it coming. Dodged faster. Predicted his opponents movements more proficiently. He is culpable. His injury is his own failure and his own error. 

He wishes Grayson would give him _something._

Alfred finishes wrapping his ankle, cutting the fabric around the joint. He stands and walks toward Grayson, speaking to him. 

_Mangled_ , he says. _Fractured_. Damian has to remind himself they are talking about his injury, and not the inside of his chest. 

He continues listening to them. He prefers the sounds of their voices, to the one inside his head, reminding him of his discrepancy. 

“Master Richard, I wrapped his ankle to the best of my abilities.”

“Thanks Alfie,” Dick says, smiling. 

The silence returns. Alfred leaves. Grayson doesn’t look at him. Damian counts the seconds in his head. Each one is more frustrating than the last. Each one becomes longer. 

Ninety five seconds pass, and Dick slides back the cowl, progressing in his direction, planting himself in front of him. 

“How the leg?” he asks.

Damian sifts through each word he knows, in each language, attempting to find the right response. “It doesn’t hurt,” he says, hoping the declaration will elicit approbation he hates himself for wanting from Grayson. 

To his dismay, Dick makes that face. The one where he sees right through him. The one where he’s telling Damian, with his eyes, that his carefully calculated words weren’t what he wanted to hear.

“It doesn’t hurt a lot,” Damian corrects. Reluctant against the admittance, he adds a preferable assertion. “I can still fight.”

Though Dick has eyes that intrude into Damian’s very pneuma, he seems to always miss the deeper meaning. “We’re already here. Let’s call it a night.”

Damian scoffs to hide whatever other sound is there, ticking and incendiary, in his heart. “Batman doesn’t go to bed early.”

“This one does,” he says. “Consider it your duty as Robin. Sleeping. It’s another aspect of training.”

Damian furrows his eyebrows. He can’t tell if this is a case of him simply meaning what he avers, or if there’s something else Damian’s supposed to inquire. 

Indignant, he snarls. “How is sleeping training? I could spend my time instead doing _actual_ work.”

Dick sighs. Damian doesn’t consider it working hard enough unless you’re on the verge of death. If you can be hurt more, or worse, there’s more to be done. More to do. 

“Remember last week, when we were sparring?” He waits for any response from Damian, but doesn’t get one. “I kept beating you. Do you know why?”

Another mistake. Another fault. Damian archives it in his mind, aggressively preparing for his next utterance. “Your heedless babbling is distracting?”  


“You were _tired._ Someone your age shouldn’t have circles under your eyes.”

“Someone _your_ age shouldn’t be so frivolous.”

Dick almost laughs. His strange insults sometimes get to him, but more in a hysterical sense than a humored one.

Instead, he frowns. “It was a rough night. Your ankles broken. And I really can’t think of anything better than passing out right now.”

There’s a complaint, or a grievance that should occur after such words. About Dick’s weakness, or lack of skill. For needing sleep when his father did without. Yet, Damian goes quiet. His fingers dig into the medical table, and his eyes, though hidden behind the mask, are downcast, by the tilt of his head.

Dick wants to ask, but a small, too small, and too quiet voice cuts through the space, and through him.

“Is it because I failed?” he asks.

“What?”

“You’re giving up on me.”

“Damian—"

“I was injured because I made a mistake. I’ll get better. I heal faster than most. I can—”

Damian still doesn’t understand he doesn’t need to ask to be here. He doesn’t have to plead with Dick. He chose him. He wants him. He’s not going to change his mind, like Damian so often worries over. 

“I’m not giving up on you. What gave you that idea?” No answer, as if it’s obvious. “You didn’t fail. You were hurt. I get hurt. Your father got hurt. It’s not failure. Sometimes things don’t go as planned.”

“I should have—”

“I’m not sending you to bed because you’re in trouble. This isn’t a punishment, Damian.”

Brimming with ire and scorn, he sneers at him. “Then what is it?” 

Dick doesn’t know how to answer. If he says concern, Damian will give him a list of reasons not to be. If he says it’s cause he cares, he’ll bite out an answer about how he doesn’t need compassion, he needs to be respected. 

Navigating Damian is quite the difficult task. 

“Consider it a night off.” Perceiving the answer he’ll next receive, Dick moves to the computer, and pulls up a screen. “We put away the guy who hurt you. Nothing dire is going on.” Dick moves back to him, and stands in front of him. He puts a hand on a his shoulder, expecting it to be shoved off, but it isn't. “How about this? If something happens, I’ll wake you up.”

Damian’s sense of failure is replaced with a sicker feeling. It takes the words out of his head, and out of his mouth. He only nods.

“Go clean up. I’ll update the case file.”

Footsteps follow his nod this time. 

The screens change, and the click of keys, and Dick shuts off the device, advancing toward the changing area. 

When he gets there, Damian’s out of his Robin uniform, redressed in leisure attire. He’s sitting on the bench, kicking his legs, staring at the ground. It’s the youngest he's seen Damian look.

Damian doesn’t speak to him. It’s uncharacteristic, but Dick takes the time to change, sliding off his boots, removing the suit that feels far too heavy for the material it’s made of. 

Dick shuts the locker, and looks over at Damian, still not speaking. He doesn’t look over to him. Dick looks away, sitting backwards beside him, staring in the opposite direction. 

“You’re not giving up on _me_ , are you?” Dick asks. 

Damian turns to him, then away. “No…”

Dick slides around, facing the same way as him. “Don’t tell me you’re considering it now?”

“I’ve never…” He drifts off, changing the words, deciding his original statement sounds too desperate. “I haven't thought to.”

“Neither have I.” Damian looks up at him, and meets his eyes. “I won’t give up on you if you don’t give up on me.”

“What about tonight?”

“What about it?”

“I sustained an injury because I miscalculated… Is that not worthy of your contempt?”

A manic, amused sound comes out of Dick without consent. Damian frowns, all dismal under his eyebrows. “Do you think I’m disappointed because of tonights events?”

“I don’t…” His face contorts, in thought. “Aren’t you?”

“I’m not.” Dick glimpses over at him, Damian's stare on the ground, once more. “The only thing I’m disappointed about is I couldn’t hurt the guy who did this to you a little more.”

“What?” Damian asks, genuine astound his voice. 

“I care about you as my Robin… And I _guess_ Damian isn’t so bad, either,” he jests, smiling. “Why does that surprise you?”

“Your… reactions are hard to read. Sometimes I can’t tell what you are thinking. Everyone here, in fact. It is… unusual.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean… The way you interact. Even my father. It is very different from my other…” _home_ , he thinks, but doesn’t feel it’s right to say. “My mother… she would give me a task, and it was for me to decide how I… reached my objective. Here… it is the opposite. Your expectations… they are… ” He looks at Dick, and grimaces. Both at what he shared, and how long he has spoken, unsanctioned. “I am learning,” he says, reforming.

“This is new to me, too. Being…” Dick hesitates, and wonders why; wonders what other word is lingering there. “Batman. I’m also learning.” Dick nudges his shoulder. “We’re in this together, me and you.”

Damian leans toward him, slightly. “Hm.” 

“Hm?” he repeats. Then, he speaks again, the question accompanied by a sensation, of the bench below them sinking into the floor. “Do you trust me?”

Damian scowls, but it's soft, idle. “…I think so.”

“I trust you. That’s why I’m not disappointed. I trust if you could have prevented it, you would.” Dick has to resist reaching up to comfort him, with a stroke of the hair, or a cheek. 

Dark, glinting eyes burn up at his, with trepidation Damian won’t admit he has. Dick continues. “If you don’t trust me… Not enough to…” _Not hurt you. Not leave you. Not hate you._ “I’m on your side. Regardless of if you get hurt or make a  _real_ mistake. I won’t start hating you over something as insignificant as that.”

Without permission, Damian's mouth moves. “What will you start hating me over?”

_ “Really?” _

“It’s important to be informed.”

Dick reclines on the bench. “You’re right.” He pauses, considering his answer. “I guess… Keep talking to me like this when you’re uncertain and we'll be fine.” 

“That’s it?” he asks, disbelief entwined in his voice.

“I’m a simple guy,” he says, hauling himself up off the bench. He stands in front of Damian, and his eyes follow him. “Come on. Upstairs.” Damian doesn't move. Dick raises an eyebrow. “Want me to give you a piggyback ride?”

“A _what?”_

“You know,” he gestures. Damian blankly stares. No sneer, no glare, just an empty expression.

It hits Dick in a sick, aching feeling in his stomach. Damian doesn’t know what it is. He doesn’t know because he’s never had one. He’s never been carried. He’s never been cared for.

“I have no clue what you’re talking about,” Damian huffs, crossing his arms.

“It’s when you carry someone on your back,” Dick says, concentrating on steadying his voice around the stinging in his throat.

“Your expressions are obtuse and unnatural,” he responds. “I’m not an infant.”

“You’re hurt.”

“I _can_ walk.”

“You’re not making much of an effort there.”

“Perhaps I am taking my time.”

“You’re not one to do that.” Damian doesn’t respond. Dick bends down, to his level. “It’ll be fun.”

“Fun?” He scoffs, as if the characteristic is an insult.

“Do it for me, then. Let’s say… it’s training. Carrying you up the stairs makes up for me ditching patrol.”

“We’re not ditching,” he says. He stares at him, and Dick doesn’t move, but neither does he. He clicks his tongue. “Must I?”

“Building trust,” Dick reminds him. 

Damian glowers. Then, he pouts. Then, he stands up. “This is stupid,” he says, adjusting himself on his back. He wraps his arms and legs around him. 

Dick stands up with the weight of him, and makes his way toward their quarters. “Most things are.”

“Profound,” Damian mumbles. 

Halfway up the stairs, Damian rests his head on his shoulder. The small gesture of acceptance is more meaningful than anything else Dick thinks he’s ever received.

In Damian's room, the small bed, and the expanse with less items than one his age should have, Dick sits on the bed, rolling Damian off him and standing. Damian sits up over the mattress, bending his knee, holding his ankle. 

“Not so bad, right?” effulgently, Dick asks.

“Don’t assume I enjoyed that. I was merely accommodating your wish for additional training.”

“It won’t kill you to admit you liked it.”

There’s a tiny upturning of his mouth Dick knows he’d deny, were he to comment on it. “It wasn’t the worst thing you’ve done.”

Dick doesn’t hide his own grin. Damian lays on his side, facing him, and Dick kneels before the bed, grabbing Damian’s sleeve near his wrist, pulling it down, to fix it from his shifting. He’s surprised Damian allows his doting. 

“You’re a good kid,” he says, fond. 

The small, content contortion leaves Damian's face, the usual scowl returning. “I don’t want to be a good kid. I want to be a good partner.”

Dick exhales, taking a deep breath. “You are a good partner. And you keep getting better. Even though you were injured tonight… You did good. No one else was hurt because of you. Ok?”

Damian’s prior inner conviction stumbles away with his corroboration. “Ok.”

Dick stands from the floor, running a hand back through his hair. “Well… I’m going to bed. I know I’m asking a lot here, but at least _try_ to get some rest?” He smirks at him, but he’s serious in his will. “And don’t even _think_ of sneaking out.”

“I won’t,” Damian says, earnest. “I…As your partner... I respect your…judgment.”

“In that case… you’re a _great_ partner.”

Damian grumbles, slighting him in another language. 

The snide in his tone wanes as Dick watches him avert his gaze, even in the dim room. Dick knows he’s simultaneously uncomfortable and absorbing the commendation. Unable to help himself, Dick leans down, placing a kiss over his hair.

A hand flies up as he leans away, and Damian makes an exasperated, revolted face, vociferating. “What the hell was _that!?”_

Dick chortles. “A goodnight kiss?”

Damian vehemently rubs at his hair, as if his affection is something filthy he should rid himself of. “That was _completely_ unwarranted!”

“It’s called affection. Surely, you’ve at least heard of it?”

“If you _ever again_ attempt something of the sorts, I will—”

“Behead me for my malfeasance?” Dick snickers. “Yeah, yeah. Got it.” He lifts an arm and ruffles his hair, but Damian slaps him away in the same instance. Dick grins, jeering. “Goodnight, Damian.”

Damian turns around on the bed, away from him. “ _Get out_ , Grayson.” There’s a strange, undistinguishable warmth in his chest, one he can’t explain, or describe. It’s a sensation he’s only ever received around Grayson.

As Dick makes his way to his own room, there’s something like a smile on his face, and a sound; something like a laugh. And, for the first time since he has become Batman, it’s not a bitter one. 


End file.
